


Lean On Me

by Ladycat



Category: Buffy the Vampire Slayer
Genre: M/M, Pre-Slash, Schmoop
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-12
Updated: 2014-02-12
Packaged: 2018-01-12 02:42:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,598
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1180967
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ladycat/pseuds/Ladycat
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Xander was getting used to the gig, really he was.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Lean On Me

Xander was getting used to the gig, really he was. He even appreciated it -- really. Appreciated it a _lot_. There were plenty of people (Xander suspected he was related to at least some of them) who couldn't claim to have _anybody_ and Xander knew, heart of hearts knew, that Buffy and Willow loved him. 

Sure, okay, so they didn't want to sleep with him in a sexy-fun kind of way (and privately, Xander knew also in his heart of hearts that Willow never had, protestations aside; that was friendship all twisted up with hormones and comfort and it was flattering but very not them) but they loved him. Really, truly adored him and despite the fact they'd left him here on Christmas Eve, all alone and injured and very much denying the prick of something sharp and warm in his eyes, all he had to do was say the word. Just one word and there they'd be, with him, because they loved him.

Except he loved them _back_ so he told them to go have fun with their honey-bunnies. He would be fine, really, it was just some bruises.

Bruised _ribs_ , which Buffy should've at least guessed, but even if she had, well. Xander loved her. Really loved her. That meant letting go of her when she needed it.

Which she did: a nice, normal, non-demonic Christmas with a human who loved her (and coincidentally got to show it to her in the most primal of ways) was something Xander couldn't deny her.

Still sucked, though.

Sighing, Xander tried to shift more comfortably against his propped-up pillows. The tv blared _It's A Wonderful Life_ with comforting familiar black-and-white graininess. There was a glass of milk and a plate of cookies waiting by his elbow, ostensibly for Santa. Santa would be getting a few less than originally put out, but Xander was pretty sure he wouldn't mind.

And great. He was contemplating _made up Santa Claus_ \-- and he better be made up because there were only so many disillusions Xander could take -- missing the actual cookies Xander was really eating because hey, _cookies_ and his life officially sucked.

Sucked. Hard-core. He was living in a beautiful apartment he'd got for the girl, except he had no girl. He was _inside_ , away from the snow and the stink of urine he could never get out of the sleeping bag, but he felt lonelier than ever.

And oh yes? His ribs _hurt_. There wasn't a comfortable way to breathe and he couldn't move and his life just absolutely, unbearably, sucked.

On the screen, Jimmy Stewart beamed that charming smile of his.

"Yeah, screw you too, buddy," Xander grumped.

"Hey! That any way to talk about a legend?"

Xander started so badly that his curse had nothing to do with the strange voice floating from his bedroom and everything to do with the _massive stabbing agony_ of his chest. Clutching his ribs like he suffered from maidenly distress only gave him emotional relief. "Spike?" he wheezed.

"Whoa, now. Easy." Spike's hands were stunning gentle as they caught him around the middle, pushing him into a position that magically eased his pain. They stayed around, too, stroking cool relief over his aching ribs before trailing up to his jaw, cupping and turning and generally being made of wonderfulness.

It was disconcerting as hell. 

Xander _should've_ objected. He thought about it, vehemently, but he felt kind of hot and awful and Spike's hands felt really, really good and he'd made the pain go away and after all that, he just didn't have any real vehemence. "Spike?"

"Don't be dissin' Jimmy Stewart," Spike told him, smirk curling the edge of his mouth. "He's a god among lesser actors and cheesy as this movie is, it's one of my favorites."

 _That_ was pretty damned boggling. What made Xander truly gape, though, was when Spike _fluffed his pillows_ , frowning down in studied concentration, then _went to the kitchen and made him a mug of tea_.

Clearly, there'd been some kind of possession. Or maybe Xander was in _It's a Wonderful Life_ because nothing else made sense.

Spike settled in beside him, trading the mug for the remote. "It's ginger, don't start accusing me of poisoning you. Sore ribs can make you queasy as hell, and since I bet you've been scarfing cookies like a good lad, you're gonna feel it soon if you haven't already. This should help a little."

Help. Help? Xander thought about saying 'help' because clearly he was in bizarro land, but it never really made it out. Instead he sipped his tea, which was sharp and surprisingly good, settling the knot in his stomach he'd never even noticed, and let Spike flip through the channels. "I thought you liked Jimmy Stewart?"

"I do. Still seen that movie enough times that I want to rend the damned film."

"Ah. So, you're a hypocrite."

Spike just shrugged, reaching over him to steal a cookie. "Me? Never. Pure as driven snow, I am."

"Right, the kind that's visited by dogs and little kids." Eventually the _flick flick flick_ of Spike's seizure-inducing habits with the remote slowed and then stilled. Jimmy Stewart was back on the screen. "So I guess you want to stay here. Be, I don't know, warm on Christmas?"

"Don't really feel cold like you lot do."

That wasn't a 'no'. It wasn't a 'yes', but Xander suspected he wasn't getting one of those. Well, it wasn't the first time Spike had spent the night (the week, once the _month_ , sneaking around Anya and how he'd done that Xander really just didn't want to know) and it _was_ Christmas. Xander could be magnanimous on Christmas.

Particularly when Spike brought him another mug of the tea. And resettled him whenever Xander winced uncomfortably. And tugged the blankets back up. And turned off the phone when Xander made a face at the caller id -- his parents and wow, _world of no_.

And...

Eventually, Xander noticed he was tipped to one side. He wasn't hurting, though, propped up against something that rose and fell rhythmically but wasn't really all that warm. Or soft. It was surprisingly comfortable, though, so he didn't try to move. The tv was blaring some sort of infomercial, random noise that put a soft, familiar patina over everything; this wasn't the first time he'd spent hours watching people try to sell him things that didn't work and he didn't need.

Oh, yes, and there was also someone stroking his hair.

In Xander's defense, it wasn't like the sensation was really noticeable. Or bad. It definitely wasn't bad. It was a _good_ feeling, really, fingers scritching right over the spots that needed touch most, rubbing along his scalp before sliding down the edges of his hair, tugging with just the right amount of pressure to pull without hurting. It was a subtle feeling, really, faint and off in the distance of Xander's awareness until he was ready to handle it.

Because unless the Thing had someone appeared (not impossible, but pretty doubtful) there was only one person who's hand the stroking could come from.

" -- miss snow on Christmas," Spike was saying, his voice a quiet bur that smoothed over Xander, counter-point to his touch. "It's not like I've got such happy memories of it, but there's something about it truly being a white Christmas, the way it muffles the sound until everything feels... well, reverent, and don't go telling people that. But that's what it's like. Like bein' in Church again, and maybe even meaning it, everything just a little bit out of focus. A little bit holy."

Xander thought about saying something. Maybe 'hi, I'm awake, please stop telling me things that make my head spin?'. Except his head wasn't really spinning, or at least if it was, it was in the good way from strong, blunt fingers that touched him just the right way. He didn't want that part to stop.

"Couldn't bear spending Christmas alone. It's not very demonic of me, sure, but there it is. Spike needs to spend Christmas with somebody, even if it's bloody Harmony. She's not here, though, and well... spent it with you last time, so I figured I might's well come here again. Nicer place this time." He was kneading the back of Xander's neck now, careful and so, so slow. "An' I know how you are on Christmas, pet. Didn't want you being alone, either."

Later, hours later, Xander would remember being helped into bed, pillows rearranged so he could actually sleep in comfort. He remembered Spike leaning down over him and then a soft, delicate touch of lips against his own, like feathers glancing against him.

Feathers that smelled of leather and nicotine, but... still feathers, soft and glancing and sweet.

He hung onto that memory in the morning and when he carefully hobbled his way over to the sofa, feeling good for the first time in maybe a whole month, tingling from his head right down to his toes. Shaking Spike awake, he put on his biggest, widest grin. "Happy Christmas, Spike," he said, and licked his lips.

It was involuntary. _Really_ , it was completely involuntary because he needed to brush his teeth. Truly.

But Spike's eyes lit up like he'd been promised blood for a year (which, actually, he had been although he didn't know it yet; what, Xander could give evil fiends from hell presents if he wanted!) and he smiled back at Xander, shy enough that Buffy's stories of who Spike had been were almost believable.

"Merry Christmas, pet."


End file.
